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Post by Shark a' Pult on Jul 26, 2012 12:53:29 GMT -5
Hex gave me a neat idea. Would anyone be interested in offering critiques on their own writing as well as other people's? Keeping civility in mind, I figure people could discuss theirs and others' writing styles in whatever capacity they saw fit.
That is, assuming other people would be up for this.
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Post by CJ on Jul 26, 2012 17:43:07 GMT -5
These are some tips from a director and storyboard artist from Pixar. They can be applied to just about every sort of writing. Check it out: nofilmschool.com/2012/06/22-rules-storytelling-pixar/Also, if I were to give any advice, it would be to ask yourself questions. I always ask what I would do in my character's situation. I then focus on what they would do. A lot of times the distinction between myself and my character can provide a lot of inspiration. Like, for example, the recent situation in the Ian thread when Uzo was called "Lord." I would have corrected Elsa, but I knew Uzo wouldn't. That's where the fun and humor comes in, at least to me I guess.
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Post by Sprite on Jul 26, 2012 18:00:40 GMT -5
What CJ said. Just really explore your character and get into character and match up the personalities. It can be difficult especially when your character's personality is maybe polar opposite from your own, but its a good learning experience.
I'd be down to give tips and constructive criticism if anyone wants it though.
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Post by crocoduck on Jul 26, 2012 20:06:49 GMT -5
If I see anything I think can be improved on in somebody's post that wants critiquing, I'll definitely let them know.
On that note, pleasepleasepweaaase comment on anything you see on my writing that you think should be fixed. Even if you say "OH MY GOD YOU SUCK SO BAD" I won't get pissed or anything, so feel free to be honest and critique at any time, even in an OOC note in that same thread.
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Post by Shark a' Pult on Jul 26, 2012 20:38:42 GMT -5
I actually meant for this thread, that people would put forth their writing and others would comment on it, as well as the person themself.
Whatever works though.
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Post by Sprite on Jul 27, 2012 2:12:18 GMT -5
Dian paused and let the rope he held in his fingers drop slowly to the wooden boards of the ship's floor. He looked behind him and squinted through the rain at the dark cloud cover. It had felt like his heart had just stopped for a second, a shiver ran down his spine as he pulled the tattered remains of the threadbare cloak around him, trying to ward off the cold wet and horrible feeling of omen hanging over his shoulders.
Returning to his work and shaking off the ominous premonition he stooped down and resumed tying down the ship as he stormy winds intensified. As he did his shipwork, the young runner paused to brush his ever growing hair out of his eyes to peer at his destination. It was not a pretty sight. Walls of whirling wind and crashing waves seemed to surround the island, a red glow from within the natural prison bars seemed to hint at some sort of volcano...
But the speedster was not worried. His legs had carried him out of every situation known to man. Whether it was fleeing hungry ped-o-kamas, scaling vertical walls to escape a pit, and even that one time he had to weave his way through a ravenous horde of zombies while wearing a meatsuit. Nothing was too much for him with his trusted feet to carry him forward. Looking down at his treasured feet, he realized that the orange and red lacquered surface of his Mizuno Hyperspeeds did not reflect his face anymore. Putting down all his work for a moment he grabbed a rag and spent a good five minutes rubbing furiously at the shoes until they gleamed like new again.
He smiled sadly at his distorted reflection in the surface of his running shoes, they were a precious gift from a darker time. His thoughts and reminiscing were interrupted as a sword flew from somewhere behind his little dinghy and impaled itself inches from his foot. His wide eye stared back at him from the polished silver surface, it was seamless sword, all seemingly crafted from one piece of immaculate steel. There were no flaws, no levels changes, it was beautiful. Beautiful painful death.
Dian stumbled back a bit as he stood up, a sudden impact shaking his small dinghy as water started flooding in. Looking behind him, the young runner noticed a large barbed silver lance's head peeking at him, it had been thrown with considerable force and accuracy to pierce all the way through the lower rear end of the ship, allowing water to begin flooding in.
Waving and bobbing with the raucous waves, Dian could see a small yet beautiful cruiser made of immaculate polished gray wood sailing after his rapidly sinking ship. It cut through the water with precision despite the horrid conditions, it was beautiful like the blade. But just as deadly, as Dian had just gotten away from the owner, for good he assumed, but apparently not. He was not eager to meet that man again...
Looking at his destination once more, Dian gauged the distance as he gathered up his pack and began stretching his legs. Six...no seven miles from shore. Not a problem. His legs had carried him forward and out of every ordeal. From outrunning a raging wildfire, evading platoons of sharpshooting cannibals, and...
Dian jumped from his ship, his legs already kicking furiously at the air, as his right foot struck the water's surface he was already speeding forward, swiftly leaving his ruined ship behind as morningstars and giant shuriken rained upon it, thrown from the malicious silver ship.
...and running on water.
Critique meh betches. I know its rife with grammatical errors that would send a grammar nazi into cardiac arrest, and the ending is a little awk structurally. But yeah, GIVE ME YOUR WORST.
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Post by Shark a' Pult on Aug 2, 2012 20:40:45 GMT -5
The transitions were a bit jarring to me. As in, I had to re-read some of the parts to get what had happened. I thought it was well-done with the descriptions though, as well as the memories. Like were worked in pretty seamlessly.
Here's a question for you Sprite, what do you think about the post? I know this one wasn't really a conventional post, it was in the Phantom Hawks wrap-up thread so it's bound to be more writing intensive and less narrative.
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Post by CJ on Aug 3, 2012 19:12:39 GMT -5
As Shark was saying, this isn't so much of an RP post as it is flash fiction so I can't really criticize on that aspect.
I agree that the transitions are somewhat awkward. You put a lot of detail and care into your work. If the ideas were better spaced, your work would reflect that even more.
For example,
could instead be worded as...
The detail with the sword should be its own paragraph. Ideas should be separate from each other, to give each paragraph its own purpose.
Another nitpick is this easy to fix problem I used to get in as well...
This should be two separate sentences. Like this:
Run on sentences make your otherwise AMAZING~ writing look sloppy. Overall, your posts are really creative with great amounts of details and characterization. Nice work, dearest Sprite-to.
Oh, and anyone can critique any of my posts. I can take the hurt and the critical love.
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Post by crocoduck on Aug 7, 2012 13:57:08 GMT -5
MY TURN ]THIS IS SO FUN! [/I] Z wasn't quite as amused. His body was propelling forwards at an ungodly speed, and he once again had lost all control of it. This was the second time today, and it was getting rather old. The bastard he was holding onto didn't even have the decency to wait another second for Z's lower body to completely heal. Just a few milliseconds more, and Z would have been capable of standing and reacting. But no. Instead, he was stuck on the worlds most lethal roller coaster ride. Z held on for dear life, despite not having any fear in losing it. It was more the fact that if he let go, this little shit would get away, and Z couldn't have that. So he held on tight through it all, which proved difficult considering all the distractions. It was simple at first, for even if Dian had already started out at superhuman speed, it was nothing Z couldn't handle. Had it continued like that, his body would have healed completely except for his front. BUT. NO. The boy only got faster. His skin was already shaving off at an incredibly frequency. Which each lightning quick step the boy took, another strip of skin came rolling off Z's body. There was a constant battle between his regeneration and the speed at which his body dragged against the floor. For a time, it was a stalemate, with each bloody chunk of flesh being replaced, only to come off again and repeating the cycle. With each second that passed, however, his bones broke more and more. The ground proved to be formidably sturdy, and with each step, Z's body slammed against it. With each slam, his newly regenerated bones crushed some more and his body was forced to heal even more parts of itself. It was beginning to look like this was too much for his fruit to actually handle. His only logical option was to release his target. The thought alone sent a wave of rage through his increasingly battered body. He could not let go. Try tickling his foot. See if that works.Sure, touching the foot at somebody moving at light speed sounds like a grand idea.Not like he could even if he wanted to. The stalemate between regeneration and friction seemed to have been broken. His flesh was falling off at a much faster rate than it was healing. For all intents and purposes, he was essentially paralyzed. There was minute control remaining over his feet and finger tips, and he still had control of the arm and hand holding the boy, but that was it. The rest of him was a useless clump of flesh and bones, with less and less of the former with each moment. Were it not for the intense anger, this world of pain might have even been euphoric for Z. Instead, it proved to be just increasingly aggravating and all he could do was hope that this bastard would stop long enough to allow him to heal. Which, of course, he did not. Instead, he did some absurd footwork and actually produced flame with his feet. Oh man, that was pretty cool.There's a gay joke in there somewhereZ couldn't appreciate the comedy, seeing as his body was quickly catching on fire. The relatively small flame grew into something fierce almost immediately. the moment it landed on his body, the rush of the boy's sprint caused it to grow exponentially. Within seconds, he was completely engulfed in flames. By this point, the entire front side of his body had been shaved down to the bone. He almost looked like a vertical cross section of a human, showing just the skeleton on the front with the flesh still attached on the back. His organs had fallen out long ago and only his esophagus remained, along with his heart which was stuck against his rib cag- Scratch that, heart's gone too.Z grimmaced with annoyance at the crushing soudn of his rib cage smashing to pieces as his body took a large bump against the ground. The flaming ball that was his heart went along with the shattered piece of bone beneath him. The flesh that had remained safe on his back was now sizzling at an impressive rate. By now, the smell of burning meat would be heavy through the room and was at such a point that Z could actually hear himself sizzling and crackling within the flames. What remained of his bones was responsible for the crackling, breaking often at the intense heat that beat at them. And then it all ended. With another iinteresting step, this inhuman child seemed to create a tempest from the bottom of his feet, and it was more than Z could handle. He no longer had any nervous system, no flesh, no muscle. His brain had shut down and he could hear, see, smell or think nothing. There were no bodily reactions and it seemed a pure miracle that he was still holding on at all. It was only a portion of his torso, his head and one of his arms that remained, but even then it seemed insane that they managed to stay on. With the wind from the boy's shoes, however, there was no longer any chance. The frail remainder of his body was flung powerfully towards the ceiling, the flames instantly reaching the zenith of their growth with the intense amoutn of wind feeding into them. The miniscule remainder of flesh was burnt to a crisp along with his bones and flung all across the room. The only whole part that remained of his body was his burnt hand that was still clutching at the boy's ankle. How it was still stuck there was hard to know, but there it was nonetheless. If the boy stopped to look odwn, he'd see no trace of the reanimated corpse that had gripped onto his leg, save for the burnt, severed hand that he had used to clutch with in teh first place. The hand still had flesh, muscle and bone. It was just burnt intensly and missing its owner, which happened to be scatted throughout the room, seemingly gone forever. Yet... the hand did appear strange. The charred flesh seemed to gain color with each moment and at times, would even tremble slightly. It would most likely not be noted by any, however, for it was very minute. What others might notice, far away from Dian, was that the disgusting chunks of Z's body that had been distributed across the room actually seemed to be moving. Some would tremble, others would just glide across the floor as if an invisible hand was pushing them. All of them made their way to the same location, however. The spot where half of his skull had landed and was steadily regrowing a face and joining with whatever pieces of its former body that reached it. It seemed the world wasn't quite done with Z just yet. It just had to wait a little.[/spoiler] Be brutally honest guis, plox.
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Post by Hitotsumami on Aug 14, 2012 23:08:58 GMT -5
I posted the first chapter of Wolf's story if anyone wanted to post some errors from that. CJ suggested doing so, so she can if she wants to.
I don't really RP to increase my writing ability, but it wouldn't hurt.
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Post by CJ on Aug 19, 2012 11:02:09 GMT -5
Personally, I aim to improve my writing no matter what kind it is... except for some professional writing. You can only write a Thank You letter or email so many different ways.
I'll get to your stuff, Sir Crocoduck. I already have some things written for Hito's short stories already. I'm sorry for skipping over you for now.
Again, these points are mostly nitpicks. They are things I had problems with but are not necessarily bad.
Chapter 1:
Is Wolf referring to the cursed from the RP or was he referring to something else? I didn't understand this part.
Is the sentence supposed to read "good mighty few marines?" Again, just nitpicking.
Chapter 2:
Since this story is from Wolf's perspective, he shouldn't note the way his hats look from under his hat. He should say that "he glared at her, barely able to see her from the rim of his hat" or something of the sort. It should never switch to the vision of another character unless done purposely or present in their dialogue. Again, though, this is just my opinion.
These are just misspellings I saw in the second chapter. Obviously we won't judge you if these show up in your fiction here. I'm sure you know to review your work double, even triple times if you're submitting it professionally.
I'll post more when I have more to say. Also, I'll review your stuff, Herr Crocoduck.
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Post by Hitotsumami on Aug 19, 2012 13:57:02 GMT -5
The scavengers would have taken him for cursed if he started moving around. And by cursed, it is not related to the previous cursed in the RP.
And thanks for all the spelling errors. I notice some of them, but their too minor for me to go back and edit. Especially since it is usually late at night when I post them. Not an excuse, just admitting my laziness in regards to small errors.
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Post by Kuro on Aug 21, 2012 0:07:56 GMT -5
I found a very old post I did back in another forum. This was the first post in the thread which introduced Mr. Dark the character without an OOC thread. I've gotten better than this old post and its flaws, but I think i'll just leave it here to be criticized, picked at, examined, and the such. Pretend as if it was offered by some random stranger and not associated with Kuro's current writing abilities. clickclackclickclackclickclackclickclackclickclack
The sound of fingers tapping keys was the background music of BB&T. People talked and there was the occasional cough, the occasional slam of a drawer and rapraprap of a pencil against a desk, but overall clickclackclickclack was the most prominent sound in the building. With that said, this particular BB&T bank was a quiet place. There were never more than 5 groups of people at a time, and money was transacted at a quick and efficient rate. Occasionally an employee and a customer would engage in small talk, but besides that only discussions on money were spoken of. Despite the importance of keeping money safe, coming to the bank was more of a chore than anything else to the ones who used this particular bank, something that could be put off to the last minute, something unimportant. Or perhaps, the reason why the building was usually so vacant was because of something else: Its aura, its atmosphere. The place was...cold. Dead. It gave people the feeling of being in a hospital or a morgue. There was simply a blankness about it. Everything was in a standard gray color and the architecture was rather imposing; The pillars supporting the place stretched up far higher than they needed to, for even though the bank did not have a second floor the roof seemed to think so for it was so high that it was as if there was an invisible second floor. The rectangular windows through which the transactions were completed did not stretch up to the ceiling and with nothing else but blank, gray wall above said windows, the place just had a strange feel to it. The building itself was one big rectangle, excluding the bathrooms and closets, with the tellers and whatever lay beyond them at one small end and the small, regular sized doors that were the entrance at the other.
clickclackclickclackclickclackclickclack
The lobby was empty as usual at this time of day and one employee was operating one of the computers. He was nothing but a teller doing ordinary business, checking over past transactions and looking over the economic state of the bank. It was satisfactory. Despite Asheville being the largest city in western North Carolina, this bank did not have as many employees as other banks, and so some people filled two roles instead of one. One certain employee, the one checking over the bank's state for example, was both a teller and a manager. Said individual was rather unique. He was 6'11 and had a lean body. He wore an open jacket over a buttoned up suit and tie. He also wore dress pants, shoes, and biker gloves. All of the aforementioned items of clothing above were black. He wore black sunglasses that could be seen through from the outside, along with a black medical mask. His hair was black, messy, and uncared for in every way except hygiene. Although most of his skin was unseen because of his clothing and messy hair, the little skin that one could see, mainly his neck and some of his head, was extremely pale.
clickclackclickclack
His alias was Mr. Dark, and he was Illuminati. In fact, he was of a significantly high rank in the pyramid of power that was the secretive and, Mr. Dark admitted without hesitation or embarrassment, rather foolish group. The Illuminati was comprised of countless humans who thought only of themselves and of their primal urges, urges that Mr. Dark had evolved past a long time ago. Young adults and sometimes teenagers who used the Illuminati as a means to pleasure themselves and to please their insatiable appetites for material possessions and power. Those who constantly bragged about being the "new generation" and constantly looked down on others. They thought nothing of their health, constantly using drugs because it stimulated their senses, a.k.a "it feels good". They were nothing more than brats who thought of themselves as the best events that had ever occurred in the world. Mr. Dark continued to think. The Illuminati was a society of secrets and deception and yet there were those who constantly flaunted their power, with such people not being limited to "the new generation". Their alibis in the real world were C.E.Os, movie stars, and rich politicians. They did not know that such positions of power were nothing but fallacies and lies. They became so absorbed into the illusions of false power that they thought of such positions as actual power. Of course, Mr. Dark knew better. Being the head of a megacorp did not automatically grant you power. It was only a means to get true power. It was a disguise and nothing more.
That was partially why, despite his high ranking and unimaginable amounts of power and influence in the world, he was a simple teller, sometimes manager. That would have seemed overwhelmingly underwhelming to those who thought ultimate "glory" was the only path. Mr. Dark did little more than complete transactions, and yet he had the ability to create laws. He was not even a complete manager of a relatively small non-chain bank and yet the effects of his plans and manipulations were sometimes the headlines of national newspapers, with neither his name nor any mention of him at all in any media whatsoever, instead being replaced with the famous names of those he had manipulated and influenced into changing the world. He knew what Illuminati was. Despite the fact that most of its ranks thought of it as a means to get power, Mr. Dark thought of it as something else because he knew he was correct. Illuminati was not a means of achieving power. Illuminati was power.
Mr. Dark was one of the few who knew of the true intentions of the Illuminati, intentions that more than 90% of its own members did not know of. He knew of the true prize, the true future that lay at the end of the group's long, long road. And yet, what he was doing on the computer was only concerned the bank. One particular BB&T bank in Asheville that, if Mr. Dark had his way, would stand for many more years to come.
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Post by CJ on Aug 26, 2012 23:03:15 GMT -5
To crocoduck's request:
A lot of long posts (and fiction, in general) suffer from boring language. Somehow you were able to find a happy medium between description and hilarious fun. I love how the description is almost a story itself. I can't explain what makes it such an awesome read.
I mentioned before that I particularly liked this bit. It's a good example of Z's Deadpool-esque humor. It's clever stuff that really challenges the reader to read your writing thoroughly. I love that.
There are a few grammar issues that could be fixed with another review. These are problems that aren't necessarily a huge problem with a forum post, but just be sure to look out for them when submitting anything professional.
Otherwise, excellent work. Sorry for the long waited review. I really enjoy your posts. Keep up the good work. I'll write Kuro and Hito's stuff later.
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Post by Kyubey on Sept 16, 2012 16:32:08 GMT -5
Improving is important, and I should do it at some point. Elsewhere on the Grand Line...
To say that the pirate who spent all his time sitting by the docks of Bellyache Town and drinking awful-tasting rum was a menace to society was a little too kind. It had been nearly a month since he arrived on the shores of the island, his lonesome wayward boat already halfway to Davy Jones' Locker. The man, who anyone could tell was a pirate from the way he looked and held himself, spent a total of ten minutes finding a good perch for himself, then sat there and dedicated his time to the practice of wasting away. During the afternoon hours he would vanish, and where he went during this time nobody could tell, although at a certain hour he would always appear at the local pub, stayed there until he was thrown out, then walked straight over to his spot on the docks. Several times, the authorities of Bellyache town and the townspeople alike tried to get him to leave, by force or by reason, but no matter their methods, they were quickly sent away by a quick drawing of a cutlass and a surprisingly fierce scowl. If it wasn't for those instances, one might never have guessed that this pirate was worth anything. It was only when he was approached that he showed any hint that perhaps, some time ago, this pathetic wretched joke of a pirate was once a fearsome and powerful sailor.
The loathsome drunk was far less trouble than the ruthless cutthroat, so, for the most part, the townspeople let the miserable creature alone, which was exactly what he wanted during those evenings. His smell was awful, the drunken songs he would sing were just as bad, and the townsfolk ended up surrendering that corner of the docks to him, but as long as he remained there and kept to his own business, it was a small price to pay. This was how empty rum bottles began to pile up around his little space, Qwerty found himself a decent place to stay, and the public menace became a local annoyance.
---
This evening began like any other. The setting sun reflecting off the familiar dancing waves, coupled with the effects of the rum, were a source of comfort to Qwerty. It was a small comfort, but it was the only comfort he had left. He was well aware of how deep he had sunk, and how disgraceful it was that a warrior such as he was nothing more than a pathetic beggar on an island so dull that even the weakest of pirates didn't bother with it, but as long as he had the smells and sounds of the ocean nearby and the taste of drink on his lips, then he could get by. It was a simpler way of life, one that he was rather glad he found. None of that nonsense about revenge, and none of those supposed friends that were really only painful memories in the making. All he had to do was beg a little for his rum and occasionally shout at the stupid-as-hell commoners to shut up so he could continue his drunken songs in quiet. If he was in a good mood, which he hardly ever was, he would even make them sing along with him.
"Fifteen men on a... aw, fuck it."
This day, he was certainly not in a good mood. His scraggly hair got in his face too much, the rum seemed to get worse with every bottle, and now he was certain there wasn't a single inch of him that wasn't covered in grime, smeared with dirt, or clogged with seawater. Then there was that dumb cat. The cat that just appeared that day, right out of nowhere. The cat that, for some reason, make a clanging sound as its tiny paws hit the pavement. The cat that wouldn't scram no matter how loudly and angrily he screamed at it to go away. And now, to make the day even more terrible, the cat's stupid little claws were tearing into Qwerty's skin.
Just perfect.
---
Morrison hadn't fully expected to find Qwerty, the man who killed his teacher, on this tiny little nothing of an island. It had been a while since he had left the Phantom Hawks for good, and during this time he had several notable experiences, but he failed to find any rumors that lead him to Qwerty. In fact, almost nobody he asked knew about the pirate. There was some rumor that Qwerty had been spotted in Mock Town, but Morrison already knew that to be untrue. If Qwerty had ever been there, he left a long time ago. There was another rumor that the pirate had died not far from Water 7, and for a time, Morrison believed that. It was the best explanation for the pirate to be completely gone for two years. Then, Morrison heard a story about a lonesome drunken pirate that spent his days annoying the people of Bellyache Town, and, for some reason, he thought to investigate. Sure enough, there was Qwerty, all alone. He looked different, somehow even dirtier than he was when he killed Moisant, but the sound of his harsh, scratchy voice was all the proof Morrison needed. Just seeing that man filled the cat with old, bitter memories, and he wasted no time in fulfilling the mission he had in mind for years.
Qwerty reacted rather quickly for a drunk, staggering backwards and into a standing position before the claws could do any meaningful damage. Morrison crouched and arced his back, hissing at his sworn enemy. Surely just the feeling of his razor-like claws was enough to show that he was not a normal cat. It would be nice if he could frighten his opponent before he continued his assault. Cats liked to play like that.
Instead of recoiling with fear like Morrison wanted, Qwerty simply scowled and picked up his cutlass, before going into something of a fighting position. Morrison responded by running straight at the opponent, and was met with a few deft sword strokes, which clashed uselessly against his steel body. Qwerty was undoubtedly a talented swordsman, obviously having been trained by a talented teacher. He had both skill and power in his strokes despite being out of practice, but anything he could do was ineffective against a target like Morrison. The cat could see the attacks coming long before they connected, but he didn't bother to dodge, or even give Qwerty the courtesy of reacting to the blade. He stayed on the same path, and, once he was within range, dug his claws into the pirate's leg. Qwerty growled and tried to shake the cat off him, but Morrison hung on, doing further damage to the ankle.
"Fuck!" he screamed, before delivering a kick to his opponent's side. After a nice loud thumping sound, he cried out with pain again and grabbed at his foot. Morrison released the ankle, which was already dripping with blood and badly wounded, and backed off. Now, the victim couldn't run. Revenge wouldn't be satisfying if it was done swiftly. It was already bad enough that Qwerty was clearly no longer the man he was when he murdered Moisant, it would be a shame if it was over in a matter of minutes. Morrison could at least entertain himself by prolonging the battle as much as he could.
"You..." Qwerty coughed out, pointing right at Morrison. Perhaps the rum made him think he could communicate with a cat. Of course he was right, but the sight was still odd. "Yer... yer Moisant's cat, yeah? Yer his kitty, right?"
Morrison stopped. He didn't quite know what to expect from encountering Qwerty, but he didn't expect to be recognized. Just the fact that Qwerty knew Moisant well enough to remember the name was shocking.
Upon seeing the cat's hesitation, Qwerty laughed horribly. "I knew it! I thought so! Yer his fuckin' kitty, alright! Ya look just the same as ya did years ago! Except for the metal, and all, and I don't remember his cat bein' so mean, but I don't give enough shits about your story to ask about that."
"Mrow?"
This got another laugh, this time a small chuckle. "Eh, this is the Grand Line, any crazy shit can happen. Well, I bet yer wonderin' about some things. Maybe I can help. Hell, I ain't got nothin' to do. I can talk. Unless ya just wanted revenge, in which case, we can have at it anytime."
Morrison retracted his claws, to show he was listening. He hadn't planned for this, but as long as Qwerty was willing to give answers, then revenge could wait a few minutes.
"Huh, so yer really listening, huh? Fuck. Well, I'm a man of my word, unlike some people. Let's see... outta all the people I hurt or killed, Moisant's the only one I remember who had a cat. That's how I knew who you were. He got a cat after I was friends with him, though."
The last sentence made Morrison tense up, which Qwerty apparently noticed.
"Yeah, I was friends with your ol' master. Fuckin' bastard didn't even mention me to you, ain't that just somethin'. Well, we weren't friends very long. It's a wonder ya were able to find me at all. I used to be quite the sea devil, but that was before your time, I'd reckon. I wasn't always a lonely poor fucker scrounging for coins. I once had a whole crew of bastards itchin' for a fight. Fuck, I used to be out for revenge, just like you were, little guy. It was during this time that I met Moisant. He was a thief back then, not just some old guy livin' at home with a goddamn cat. I'd ask what happened to him to make him stoop so low, but, well, look at me. Anyways, Moisant was my shipmate for a time. He stayed on my boat for a while, we shared drinks together, killing each other was the farthest thing from our minds. Some times, he would try to get me away from the whole revenge thing. he said it was bad for me, that even if I found the guys I was looking for and carved 'em to pieces, it wouldn't do me any good. He was always weird like that. He talked about settling down every now and again, and sometimes he tried convincing me to do the same. Of course I fuckin' wouldn't do that. Anyways, it came time for him to leave the crew, but he wanted to go on one last adventure with me. What he didn't say was that that 'adventure' was a fucking trap. That was the last time I saw him. I remember, his last words to me was something like, 'this is for your own good.' Heh, it probably was. As you can probably guess, I'm not a man who doesn't have any regrets.
I got outta the trap, but only 'cause I was lucky, and things didn't go so well after that. I lost a bunch of times, to guys I would've torn apart before. I was beaten down more than I was able to so much as get a hit in. And then, everyone was just fuckin' gone. My brother, Kate, my whole fuckin' crew, Connor, even that fuckin' Shikabooki, everyone I was ever friends with, they were all dead. I was the only fuckin' man left, when I was the guy that deserved it the least. My plans for revenge? Fuckin' shot. I was low. Not as low as I am now, but I was on my way there. I got angry. So, I thought, since everyone else that I had ever cared about was dead and buried, I might as well just go ahead and complete the fucking set. Pitiful, I know, and not something I'd normally do, but it was the only fucking sense of payback I would ever get. That's why I killed him. Does that make you feel any better, kitty? Does that give you any closure? Don't bother answering, 'cause I don't give a fuck."
Morrison stayed silent, and simply stared up at the pirate. Then, he pulled out a small piece of paper and his pen, and wrote out:
Are you done?
Qwerty grinned and held up his sword. "Yeah. I like you, kitty. Yer the most fun I've had for a long time now. Let's go, I'm fuckin' tired."
The short, clear sound of metal striking metal rang throughout the docks. Please proceed to tear it apart or whatnot.
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